


The Boosh Monkee Around

by DarcyFarrow



Category: Mighty Boosh, The Monkees (TV)
Genre: M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, a Boosh homage to their comedy antecedents, literally; a candy-induced dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-27 01:03:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20939723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarcyFarrow/pseuds/DarcyFarrow
Summary: Riding on a candy-induced high, Vince dreams that he and the Boosh are a struggling rock band living together in a beach house.





	The Boosh Monkee Around

**Author's Note:**

> **In several interviews over the years, Noel Fielding has given credit to the Boosh's influences, including the '60s TV series _The Monkees_, which combined hip film techniques, chart-topping pop music and sweet-natured, absurd comedy. The depth of knowledge shown by his comments makes it clear Noel's a genuine Monkees fan (Mike Nesmith is his favorite). Speaking to _Rip It Up_ in 2015, Noel said: "I was obsessed with [_The Monkees_ series]. The Monkees drew their thing from the Beatles' films which were highly influenced by _The Goon Show_ and Spike Milligan so there is a direct line from The Mighty Boosh to The Goons via The Monkees and Beatles, so yes, they influenced me enormously." Which got me to look for Monkees-Boosh connections, starting with the most obvious: Bollo.  
**   
**The Monkees episode that Vince dreams of is "Meet the Monkees." The entire series is available on DVD and Youtube. The Monkees rap that Howard and Vince quote from is "Zilch," in which each Monkee chants a single-line quotation. Interweaving the quotes into a chant, it results in a surreal rap of non sequiturs. "Zilch" is also available on Youtube.  
**   
**Please forgive my lame attempt at British slang (I'm American.) I'm struggling to sound Booshy.**   


FOREWORD

On the day Vince Noir was crowned by _Cheekbone_ as the Fashion King of Camden, his friends realized they could no longer give him gifts of clothing. His style imagination ran, _Cheekbone_ estimated, two to three weeks ahead of everyone else's, so anything anyone thought was clever and cutting edge, he had already worn last week. 

This could have been a problem when his birthday rolled around. A Topshop scarf, a belt, or a wrist band formerly had made easy choices for birthday and Christmas gifts, but for the man who'd already seen the fashion future and had been living it well ahead of everyone else, well, there was no use trying to keep up, was there? Not that he'd denigrate the gift at all: he'd always taken as much delight from being fussed over as he had from the gift itself. His grin wouldn't waver in the least if, after he tore off the wrapping paper, he discovered he'd been given something he'd worn and tired of already. Still, when Vince's birthday approached this year, his friends murmured among themselves as to the best way to surprise him. Finally, they sent an ambassador to the Centuries-Old, All-Knowing Shaman (who, even if he hadn't been so smart, had access to Vince's closet and could report back on stuff Vince didn't already own). 

Being Centuries-Old and All-Knowing, Naboo had his priorities in order and wasting time answering stupid questions wasn't one of them. He snorted, "He likes candy. Now if you're not going to buy something, get out of my shop, Bog Surfer."

To which said Surfer dared one last question: "What kind of candy?" For which he was pelted in the face with a handful of Flying Saucers. "Thanks, Naboo!"

\-----------------------------------------------------

"Did you enjoy your birthday, Little Man?" 

A long morning sleepie, followed by Jelly Baby pancakes, a trip to the London Zoo (to see the llamas for Howard and the chimps for Vince), and a party at the Velvet Onion attended by two hundred of his close friends (Bollo made them take a Vince quiz before he'd admit them to the club) had resulted in a perfect day. "Best birthday ever! Cheers, Howard."

"Just one last thing." Howard settled onto the sofa and patted the empty cushion next to him. Hands filled with sacks and boxes of candy (his birthday gifts),Vince tucked in beneath Howard's outstretched arm. Howard clicked a button on the remote and the TV popped on. "I thought we'd wind down the day with that box set from Bollo."

Popping a handful of Fruit Pastilles into his mouth, Vince managed to get out, "Genius. That was the first television program I ever saw. After Bryan took me out of the forest, we stayed in the Serengeti Holiday Inn and he taught me how to work a remote. We watched telly all day and ate fried plantains from room service. This show made me laugh till my throat was sore. But Howard?"

"Yes, Vince?"

"Don't tell anyone I love this show, yeah? I mean, now that I'm Reigning Fashion King, I got to work all the harder to maintain my cool."

"I'll keep your secret, Vince, but you should remember: you're the reigning Fashion King. You set the standard. You dictate what's cool."

Vince brightened. "Yeah! I dictate, _Cheekbone_ reports it and the rest of Camden follows. If I say this is Retro Chic, it's _well_ Retro Chic." He toyed with a lock of hair, which meant he was either daydreaming or sleepy. Howard reached over him to snatch a Hershey's Kiss from Vince's lap, then tightened his hold on Vince's shoulders. That was an unspoken and irresistible invitation for Vince to rest his head on Howard's chest, his ear pressed to Howard's heart. He reached into Howard's lap for the remote and pressed a couple of buttons. As the music began, he sighed contentedly and sang along. "'Here we come, walkin' down the street. . . .' Howard?"

"Yes, Birthday Boy?"

"I used to wish I was a Monkee. Livin' in a beach house with my three best mates, playin' music." He yawned over a mouthful of Curlywurly. "Ridin' in the Monkeemobile. Walkin' the Monkee walk in the sand. 'We're too busy singin' to put anybody'--Howard?"

"Yes, Vince?"

"That car must've cost, like, thousands. 'Come and watch us sing and play.' And the rent on that beach house, thousands too. How do you suppose" (pause for a yawn and a bite of Cadbury) "they could afford it when their music wasn't going anywhere?"

"Lots of odd jobs, remember? And most of the time, they were in arrears with the rent. Probably the car payment as well." He stroked Vince's hair slowly and methodically, an unspoken and irresistible invitation to sleep. Vince's hands dropped lifelessly into the candy stash. His head grew heavier. He lost track of the words of the song, his voice sliding into a hum. He chewed, swallowed, then let the remains of the Cadbury fall from his fingers. His eyelids closed.

"Rest, Little Man," Howard urged in a whisper. "You've had a busy day. Sleep and dream of warm beaches and fast cars and music that never falls out of fashion."  
. . . .  
From the stage, he looks out at the audience: a lovely young blonde and her father, who will decide, on the basis of the song he's singing right now, if he and his friends will pay the rent on their beach house this month. Not that he worries all that much: though the landlord stomps and shouts and threatens eviction on a daily basis, somehow everything always works out. The boys never can get ahead, but they have fun anyway. They have their music, their youth, and each other. 

The girl looks back at him with stars in her eyes. Vanessa, her name is this week, though the name doesn't matter. Next week's girl will have stars in her eyes too. "'I wanna be free,'" he's singing, and he is. 

"You're hired," says the father and his mates cheer. 

In a blink he's standing before a mirror in the beach house, combing his hair in preparation for a date with the girl. While in the background Bollo toys with a stuffed chimp and Naboo paints the fingernail of a large wooden hand, Howard advises Vince, "Don't talk to no strangers after midnight." 

The scene cuts from a good night kiss on Vanessa's porch to her guilty confession to her parents that she flunked her history exam because she's been distracted by her new boyfriend. Vince shares his worry for her with his friends, who stand by him, agreeing to help him help Vanessa study American history (never mind the fact he's British). First they have to sneak Vanessa out of her house, which they do by pretending to be charity workers picking up a donated cabinet. "Can she get out? Will she get out?" Howard sings as Vince opens the cabinet to reveal Vanessa inside. Cut to the young lovers on the beach, where three heads poke out from the sand and as Vince and Vanessa watch, Bollo, Naboo and Howard chant, "Soup, soup, a tasty soup soup." Cut again: Vanessa's exam is passed, the band's rehired to perform at her birthday party. A fast-cut montage accompanied by music has the boys running through a country club before Vince falls under the spell of another young lovely. 

\---  
"Mike?" Vince mumbled in his half-sleep. Beneath his ear a heart beat slow and steady. A hand smoothed his hair and a deep voice hummed a question. He licked his chocolate-smeared lips but didn't open his eyes. "Howard?"

"Were you dreaming, Little Man?"

One metaphorical foot remaining in the twilight world--he wasn't ready to surrender the beach house to the shadows of fantasy yet--he picked up words like rainbow-colored seashells and strung them together in a loose necklace of thought. "I was Davy because he's the frontman and you were Mike--"

"The lead guitarist. That means Bollo was Micky the drummer and Naboo was Peter on bass."

"And we helped Vanessa pass her history final. But it was _our_ faces and our music but _their_ story and oh," he snuggled deeper into Howard's arms, his movements causing the candy to spill to the carpet. He didn't notice his spill, but then, he never did, even when fully awake. "And oh, we sang and romped and played on the beach." He sighed.

"Sounds like a lovely dream." Howard glanced toward the windows, which were being pelted by rain. 

"Such a lovely"--Vince yawned and lost his train of thought. "Howard?"

"Yes, Vince?"

"We didn't invent crimps. They did. We accidentally stole them. 'Mr. Dobalina, Mr. Bob Dobalina, Mr. Dobalina--"

"'China Clipper calling Alameda,'" Howard supplied, stroking Vince's hair. He clicked the TV off. "Dream on, Little Man."


End file.
